Watch Me Unravel
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: "I bought it for you," Ian said, every bit as ruthless toned as his ex, "so just keep it! Burn it! Piss on it! I don't give a shit!" He laughed to keep from crying. Gallavich. Take on the Ian/Mickey sweater idea.


**NOTE:** Loosely inspired by Weezer's _The Sweater Song_.

Watch Me Unravel

"I'm fucking freezing my nipples off in that cell," Mickey commented during Ian's third trip down to the visiting booths. "Wish I had a coat or some shit," he said, scratching his head absently. Dandruff flakes falling to his shoulder. Without a care in the world, Mickey removed his hand from his greasy hair and began chewing a cruddy fingernail. "You think you can talk to my sister, get her to bring me something?" he asked, eyes hesitantly flickering over Ian's curious grin. "Just tell her you came by to talk about Towelhead dropping the charges or whatever," he went on.

Chewing his lip, Ian nodded and let his teeth shine through his grin. He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned on the counter. Intently, Ian watched Mickey stare back,his own eyes glinting even if Mickey's looked cloudy.

"You know," Mickey dragged out in a whisper, getting Ian's hopes up, "maybe you shouldn't come by here as often as you do," only to squash them. He shifted the phone to his other ear and cast his eyes away momentarily. "I don't want people talking shit," he added casually. Mickey's way of lightening the mood. He looked over his shoulder quick, then back at Ian, uncertain.

Ian frowned and sat back in his chair. "You'd rather no one come and see you?" Ian shot back, then instantly regretted his words. Because he could tell he'd touched a nerve.

Like a rocket, Mickey shot up in his seat. A wrist of his blue jumper snagged the counter and ripped slightly. Shaking his arm, Mickey hissed and shot daggers across the glass as he hung up the phone violently. Blood dabbed at the torn sleeve from his obvious scratch.

"Go fuck yourself, Gallagher!" Mickey roared, though his words now fell on deaf ears as Ian read his lips.

Quickly, a guard rushed over and grabbed Mickey under his arms, taking him from the room while Ian stood up and observed in a panic.

A panic that didn't quite leave him as Ian walked numbly out of the juvenile detention center and into a cold December rain. Buttoning up his thick coat, Ian tugged the hood over his shaggy locks. He fished out a his pack of smokes and lit one while crossing the street.

Ian hadn't meant to upset Mickey. Certainly not to insinuate that the Milkovich family didn't give a damn about his sitting in there, lonely, bored, and cold. Though they didn't. Mandy was even indifferent and wound too tightly in her own world. Love her though he did, Ian knew if he asked Mandy to bring Mickey a jacket, she'd only agree to until she forgot entirely. So why waste time?

Shivering, Ian trotted down the sidewalk, destination: Salvation Army. Because even if Mickey didn't want Ian visiting him, Ian would at least bring the dickhead the jacket he asked for. He'd at least drop in one more time to make sure Mickey got a sort of Christmas gift.

The thrift store was stale smelling and chilly. Over crowded, as usual. A line backed up the far wall and into the office, where Ian knew people were going in for clothing vouchers and free food. He weaved through the crowd in order to reach the coat racks near the mostly useless junk and furniture area. There he swiped the least raggedy looking jacket in his sights. And one that would also fit. Ian figured Mickey was cold in his cell, but he surely wouldn't want a thick winter coat; just a simple thin jacket would suffice. Grabbing the plain, tan XL jacket, Ian marched over and waited by the register for thirty god damned minutes.

Ian stared, open mouthed, at the fabric tossed to his feet. Brow furrowed, he bent down and sat his half empty beer can by his heel; simultaneously picking up the tan jacket. There were no lights around him, save for the distant head beams of Fiona's rent-a-camper. So he couldn't really see what he was holding, not well enough to make out the color. Just that Ian knew what he was staring at. Just like he knew he was also looking at the outline of Mickey Milkovich underneath a tree with a daring expression and his arms folded up in defense.

"I don't fucking want it anymore," Mickey mumbled. Quick and sharp. Hateful. But wet sounding. LIke he had too much saliva floating around in his cruel mouth.

Drawing up his own face, Ian hurled the jacket back to Mickey's stomach. But the lightweight fabric just slumped down to the woods between them. Honestly, the sight made Ian's throat hurt. Swallowing hard, he glared at the piercing blue eyes meeting his own. "Well I don't want it either," Ian growled, fists balled up by his sides.

Huffing out an offended laugh, Mickey let go of himself and rubbed his mouth. "Pick it up!" he demanded, furious but kept his voice quiet. Clearly Mickey didn't want to bring attention to them. He pointed angrily at the jacket. "Take your fucking jacket!" he spat.

"It's yours!" Ian barked pitifully. He knew that he was about to crack, like he had before when no one was looking. Except this time Mickey was looking. And good. Let the piece of shit see what he was doing by being so cold. "I bought it for you," Ian said, every bit as ruthless toned as his ex, "so just keep it! Burn it! Piss on it! I don't give a shit!" He laughed to keep from crying. Rubbed his face and turned to the side, kicking over his can on purpose. "Just get it away from me!" Ian seethed.

Clumsily, Mickey reached down and picked up the jacket. Ian eyeballed him from the corner. Saw Mickey clutch the gift before ripping it in half and throwing it back down. To show his distaste for a symbolic item they had once shared, the prick then spat on the ground near or on the fabric. It was hard to tell.

Ian's stomach lurched. Letting out a heavy breath, he let his face fall further. Wiped fast at his runaway tear, and stared at Mickey's back while the other boy walked away. He breathed in deeply. Gained composure. Then Scowled. Loud as he could muster, and hoping that he gained attention from the campers nearby, Ian shouted after Mickey's retreating form, "Go fuck yourself, Milkovich!"


End file.
